The spires of Kyleon Castle threw long, pointed shadows across the town square. The people of the town and a smattering of armed soldiers were gathered there, encircling the pair of men that occupied the center of the open space. 

One stood tall, sword drawn, the tip resting on the cobblestones beneath his feet. His cape swayed in the wind, and across his back was displayed a coat of arms; a blue stag with a background of bright gold. 

The other man knelt before him, blood staining his clothing in disarrayed patches. Everyone close enough could see him trembling. But still he looked up into the face of the man who had beaten him, glaring through stringy, black hair that was slick with sweat from his brow. 

All was still. 

“Do you yield?” the man with the sword asked at last, his voice as hard as his blade.

“Never,” the other man said, and with that last act of defiance he lowered his head and spat upon the ground, leaving his neck exposed. 

The first man seemed to sigh, then he hefted his sword and, with a single swing, lopped off the head of his defeated enemy. 

There were no cries of dismay, no screams. No tears shed for the fallen man. 

All was still. Still as the grave.